Authors: Gregory Shultz
“Top of the morning to you, Mr. Smith,” he said. “You’ve chosen the busiest day of the week to report back for duty. It’s Wednesday, baby. Hump Day!”
After convincing him I was healthy and alert enough to properly discharge my duties, he transmitted six work orders to me via email. It was going to be a busy day.
…
Before I knew it, six p.m. had arrived. I’d put in a day of hard work and I was headed for home. I called Vernon from my cell phone to let him know.
“I’m proud of ya, old man.”
He was always so positive. I knew that for the rest of my life he would be the only guy I’d ever work for. Otherwise I’d have to start a business of my own.
“But I’ve got a weird one here for you,” he said. “That is, if you’re up for a little overtime?”
“Lay it on me,” I said. “Glory’s working late tonight.”
“Okay, but I don’t really like it. . . .”
“Come on, Vernon. Out with it. It’s not Water Girl, is it?”
“No, but . . . how do you feel about paying a visit to Dr. Samantha Fleming?”
“She called the main company number?” I asked. “Don’t you have anyone else to do it?”
“Well, that’s the thing,” Vernon said. “She asked specifically for you. You know, Smith, she’s not the only one to have done that. Today alone I’ve gotten calls from businesswomen, all demanding you and only you. Seems some got the idea I should change the name of the company to The Hunk Squad. And you know what?”
“No, Vernon. Don’t do it!”
He laughed. “Yeah, if I thought I could find enough guys as drop-dead handsome as you, and who knew their shit like you did, I wouldn’t hesitate to go that route. It’s all about marketing, old man. Maybe you still know some of the IT contractor guys you worked with at Disney when you first moved here. I’d pay you a commission if you’d recruit for me.”
“Forget it,” I said. “Trying to find handsome geeks these days is hard, given that it’s easier for them to be taken in by a fifty-year-old cougar lady who’ll take care of them twenty-four seven.”
Vernon chuckled and conceded the point. “Well, anyway . . . Are you on good terms with this woman? You comfortable going to her house?”
I knew I had to get this over with. I had to go over there and end it for good. If she wanted to treat me to yet more hostility, I’d let her. But one way or the other, by the time I left her house, it would have to be over, and for good.
“Okay,” I said. “I’m game. I’m just two miles from her house anyway.”
…
Just as I pulled into Samantha’s driveway my cell phone buzzed. It was my doctor’s office.
“Hello, Mr. Smith,” greeted the female nurse. “Doctor Hasley wanted to call you himself with the results of your blood and urine tests, but he had a late tee time today.”
Hasley had been my general practitioner for almost ten years. We used to play golf together until I’d sold my clubs about five years ago. We remained good friends, and his family had always invited me over for Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner.
“Well, what’s the verdict on my precious bodily fluids?” I inquired. “Let me hear those magic words, darling.”
The nurse hesitated before answering. I knew she didn’t want to say what she had been quite strictly ordered to say to me, but she finally got it out: “Mr. Smith . . . Dr. Hasley says you have . . . a clean pecker. All right? You have a
clean pecker
.”
I said thank you and goodbye to the nurse, and got out of the car.
Samantha was on the front doorstep waiting for me, smiling and striking a sensual pose. Knowing her as I did, I wasn’t surprised to see her wearing a flesh-colored fishnet dress. It was so revealing that it couldn’t have possibly netted even a largemouth bass. In open view she was standing almost completely naked. Her hair was done up like a million bucks, and she looked absolutely delicious. She was still the last woman I’d had intercourse with, and it disturbed me to realize that I still felt connected with her in that respect. And it bothered me even more to realize that the only true connection she felt with anyone was indeed through sex. As intelligent and as bright as she was, when she didn’t get her way in a discussion or a disagreement, she retreated intellectually and came at you in the only other way she knew how.
I stopped a few feet shy of her and frowned. “I’m thinking there’s probably nothing wrong with your computer.”
“How are you today, Mr. Smith?” Her face held no expression at all. She flung her arms around me and pulled me into the house. In one swift motion she took me to the floor and straddled me. She then kissed me, her tongue penetrating deep and hard, damn near straight down my throat.
It all happened so fast. There was no denying—not even now—that we were one hundred percent sexually compatible. We both liked our sex rough and we both liked having a lot of it. Together we had both quantity
and
quality.
But still I pushed her away and sat upright on the floor. She was still straddling me, holding on for dear life, as if I were a mechanical bull gone totally out of control.
“Fuck me silly, you bastard,” she commanded. “Just don’t even think about it. Just do it and enjoy it.”
She pushed me back down again and grabbed my crotch.
I then shouted: “Samantha, goddammit, get off of me!” I managed to flip over to my belly and began to crawl away. But she came back on top of me. I didn’t know what to do at this point without hurting her. I had only come to square things with her, to talk face-to-face about why things between us would never work out, and to tell her she needed to quit telling people we were still together.
I flipped to my back again, grabbed both of her wrists, and quickly made it to my feet.
“I came here to talk,” I said. She broke from my grip and started punching my chest.
“You rotten bastard! Everything I’m doing is for
you
!” She was shouting as tears streamed down her cheeks.
I shook my head and regained control of her wrists. I wasn’t going to let them loose this time. I tried to lessen the severity of my tone, but I still came out with: “Including taking an old man for a ride, just for his money? That’s what you’re doing for me? Fucking him for his money?”
“I want to help you with your writing, baby,” she said. Samantha was suddenly calm and she quit struggling against me. I still wasn’t going to let go of her wrists, though. I didn’t trust her. “You are such a talented and gifted writer. You deserve to be read.”
“If that manuscript ever gets published, it will be because of my own hard work, and not a gift from you or some unsuspecting rich bastard you’re using.”
“Yeah, so what if I’m fucking him for money?”
“It makes you a prostitute,” I answered. “Nothing more and nothing less.”
That comment didn’t faze her one damned bit.
“It’s really very simple, baby. You just give me your routing and account number, and I’ll see that you get plenty of money to have your dreams come true.” Tears continued pouring from her eyes, and it just broke my heart watching her melt down like this. I conceded that she really did care about me, that in her own way she did love me. I wanted to embrace her in the way one close friend would another, to provide her comfort and solace from a world so mad and so cruel that it was cutting her heart out.
But I couldn’t do that. I knew that wouldn’t work with her. She was way past that point.
“I’m going to let go of your wrists, and then I’m walking out of here,” I said softly. “You don’t hit me, and you don’t come on to me. It’s over. God knows I tried to love you. I would have given you everything I own. But you pushed me away with all this craziness. All I ever wanted was to get you away from the insanity of coveting the almighty dollar.”
“I do love you,” she said as she fell to her knees. She looked pathetic now, as if she were a supplicant. “Oh God, I love you so much, Mr. Smith. I love you so much.”
I’d never seen a beautiful woman look so vulnerable and wanting. As I stood above her I wondered what it was she saw in me. I was a working man, a guy struggling to pay his bills by working on desktop computers, backing up hard drives, and installing memory chips. This woman could have had any man in the universe she desired. Why me?
“I’m leaving,” I said. I still wanted to put my arms around her and give her a tight hug, but I was too scared. “I really do hope you find what you want. But I’ll never let you prostitute yourself for me. I could never live like that. I hope you understand.”
And then I walked out. Surprisingly, and oddly disappointing to me for only a split second, she didn’t give chase.
As I drove away I tried to make sense out of what had just happened. It was just no use trying to figure out why Samantha Fleming was the way she was.
I thought of Glory. I just wanted to hold her hand and take a walk with her. I wanted that comfort and security. It was a real friendship we were developing. I would never do one thing to jeopardize that.
I was glad I got away from Samantha without hurting her. I said a quick prayer for her, asking God to watch over her and to guide her to a happy life.
And then, right there in the car as I was driving, I found myself thinking of . . .
Miranda.
34
I
WAS FINALLY BLESSED with sweet heavenly sleep last night—about seven uninterrupted hours of it. Following my freaky encounter with Samantha and my subsequent pangs of regret regarding Miranda, I had arrived home last evening feeling totally down in the dumps. Talking to Glory on the phone before bedtime had really brightened my outlook on life, though. We gabbed away for three hours about everything under the sun including literature, music, art, cuisine, and even politics. And finally we spoke of how much we enjoyed kissing one another. Glory said that when we kissed she felt all of her troubles vanish and that nothing else seemed to matter. Hearing that really did my heart good.
After reluctantly bidding each other good night, I listened to one of the meditation podcasts Vernon had told me about, the one specifically devoted to achieving sleep, and within twenty minutes I fell asleep with my headphones still on.
When I awoke bright and early on this beautiful Thursday morning, I wondered if my first good night of sleep in what seemed like forever was more attributable to the podcast or if it’d had more to do with Glory’s soothing voice. I decided it had been both.
I once again contemplated the serene meadow I had envisioned near the beginning of my withdrawal experience. When Glory was around to distract me from thoughts of the meadow, I was okay. But when I didn’t have her by my side, I found myself overtaken by an unhealthy desire to return to it. I feared it was a longing that would eventually consume me whole if I didn’t make it back there. I wasn’t sure that Glory could save me from . . . myself.
While chatting on the phone with Vernon following breakfast, I’d sought his opinion on my elusive meadow. I sensed that he thought I was going crazy, but he did mention that some of the other meditation recordings did focus on helping one to develop positive, lasting images of settling and tranquil scenes from one’s past. By extension, he reasoned, I could possibly summon the meadow in a similar fashion.
I wasn’t sure about that, though. I didn’t believe the meadow could be so easily willed or manipulated into existence. The most important meditation podcast, I decided, was the one that taught how to release fear. I really felt like that was the answer to everything related to the meadow. I had to accept that my neighbor Gonzo had been right about that, as much as I had once despised him. I simply had to conquer my fear, then my path to the meadow would be clear. But I also feared that if I found my meadow I would lose Glory in the process. I was confused about the whole damned thing. . . .
But today was going to be a great day. I was certain of it, and I had thanked God for this blessed morning the very moment I awoke. Not since depleting my supply of meds had I felt this good. I was back at work, and happy and proud to be doing it. I was enjoying a break from any symptoms of mania, and I only felt slightly depressed. The depression, however, felt more physical than emotional. It wasn’t that bad at all.
At 8:00 a.m. sharp I charged out the front door, feeling I had a new lease on life. . . .
…
After completing my fourth service call of the day, I went to the library to visit Glory. We sat at our usual table in the back, and she shared with me a cup of chicken noodle soup and a can of soda. She said we could now partake from the same eating utensils. After all, she pointed out, we now had the same germs.
Glory apprised me of the library’s new arrivals. She remembered that John Sandford was my all-time favorite crime author. She said his new Lucas Davenport novel would be out in a few weeks. There were already more than a hundred copies that had been reserved in advance, but my favorite librarian had placed my name on the list of the first patrons to receive it.
As we sat and talked, I really wanted to explain to Glory what had happened with her roommate. It still bothered me that Tricia had promised she would tell Glory that I had dropped wood. If she
had
told Glory about our near-sexual encounter, it hadn’t deterred Glory from dating me. But still, I wanted to clear the air about it.